The Quickie - James Patterson [3]
I reached quickly for the door when the driver switched the radio from the Spanish station to the financial news. If I didn’t escape, I feared the insectile buzz of investo-speak in stereo was going to make me scream.
Until my throat bled.
Until I lost consciousness.
Paul waved from the back window without looking at me as the cab pulled away.
I was tempted to wave back with one finger as I rolled my suitcase through the sliding doors. But I didn’t wave to Paul.
A few minutes later, I sat in the bar, waiting for my flight to be called, thinking very heavy thoughts. I took out the ticket as I sipped my cosmopolitan.
From the overhead speakers, a Muzak version of the Clash’s “Should I Stay or Should I Go?” was playing. How do you like that? The folks at Muzak had discovered my childhood.
It was good that I was feeling so manic and upbeat, because normally that realization might make me feel old and depressed.
I tapped the ticket against my lip, then very dramatically tore it in half before I finished my drink in one shot.
Next, I used the bar napkin to dry the tears in my eyes.
I was going to move on to Plan B.
It was going to be trouble, for sure. Big troubles, no bubbles.
I didn’t care. Paul had ignored me too many times.
I made the phone call that I’d been putting off.
Then I rolled my suitcase back outside, climbed into the rear of the next available taxi, and gave the driver my home address.
The first drops of rain hit the windows as we pulled out, and I suddenly envisioned something huge slipping under dark water and beginning to slide, something monumental, slowly, irretrievably sinking. Down, down, down.
Or maybe not — just maybe, I was heading up for the first time in a long while.
Chapter 3
IT WAS FULL-OUT POURING by the time I stepped back into my dark, empty house. I felt a little better when I switched my wet business suit for my old Amherst gym shirt and a pair of favorite jeans.
And a lot better when I put Stevie Ray Vaughan on the stereo to keep me company.
I decided to leave the lights off and crack open a dusty case of calla lily–scented candles from the front-hall closet.
Pretty soon, the house was looking like a church, or maybe a loopy Madonna video, given the way the drapes were blowing around. It inspired me to scroll my iPod down to her pop highness’s “Dress You Up” and to crank up the sound.
Twenty minutes later the front doorbell rang and the baby lamb chops I’d ordered on the cab ride home arrived.
I took the small, precious brown-paper package from the FreshDirect delivery guy, went into the kitchen, and poured myself a glass of Santa Margherita as I chopped the garlic and lemons. After I put the red potatoes on for the garlic mashed, I set the table.
For two.
I took my Santa Margherita upstairs.
That’s when I noticed the insistent red blink on my answering machine.
“Yeah, hi, Lauren. Dr. Marcuse here. I was leaving the office and just wanted to let you know that your results haven’t come back yet. I know you’re waiting. I’ll let you know first thing after we hear from the lab.”
As the machine clicked off, I pulled back my hair and gazed into the mirror at the faint wrinkles on my forehead and at the corners of my eyes.
I was three weeks late with my period. Which normally wouldn’t be a concern.
Except that I was infertile.
The results that my ever-helpful gynecologist, Dr. Marcuse, was referring to were from the blood work and ultrasound he’d urged me to get.
It was a race at that point. A neck-and-neck downhill heat.
Which would fail first? I thought, lifting my glass.
My marriage or my health?
“Thanks for checking in, Dr. Marcuse,” I said to the machine. “Your timing is impeccable.”
Chapter 4
AT THIS POINT, my heart was starting to race. Dinner for two — and neither of them was Paul.
After I finished my glass of wine, I went downstairs and did the only sensible thing under the circumstances. I found the bottle and took it back upstairs with me.
After I had filled my third glass, I carried it and my wedding picture onto my